


knee-deep in the north sea

by meliorism



Series: tempora mutantur [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Recovery, Sexual Content, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6161839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meliorism/pseuds/meliorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which the sea is changeless in its change, the sole survivor and danse try to find a home, and a sort of a symbolic wedding happens. <i>Sole presses his lips to Danse’s clavicle and listens to the quiet hum of his breath, of the waves. It feels like a homecoming.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	knee-deep in the north sea

**Author's Note:**

> this story is all over the place, chronologically speaking, so there are a lot of blanks that correspond to what happens in _the safest place you've found_. as usual, **spoilers** for blind betrayal and the endgame.

He’s limping.

He’s been running for a long time and his calves burn, the soles of his feet hurt, so Sole thinks that is that. It will pass. But the paladin wants him to rest and tend to himself. Scribe Haylen’s suggestion, or so Sole is told. Never do they mention the blood that’s left over his hands, under his nails, nor the tremor to his limbs. Sole doesn’t notice it until he finds a cranny that’s close to privacy to clean himself up and he nearly breaks the syringe of the stimpak he’s trying to jam into his arm. He’s feeling dizzy, like he could bow down to empty his stomach at a moment’s notice. He thinks it’s the psycho, but he knows better than to tell the paladin about it.

The paladin is a constant companion from the moment he sets foot into the police station. He tells him of the ship—the Prydwen—and how they’ve been summoned up there. He tells Sole of how it means war.

And that, honestly, is the only thing Sole cares about right now. He’s scrubbing his hands and face hard enough to leave the skin red. He tells the paladin about what happened in clipped sentences that give way to rambling phrases. His arrival at Diamond city and the chase for Valentine, the trek to Fort Hagen and Kellogg’s death. How he and Nick discovered Kellogg’s insides as an amalgam of circuitry and meat. He doesn’t tell him of the dread that shook his core when he saw the Prydwen overhead. Paladin Danse listens.

Then,

“The Institute,” Sole says, “your Brotherhood will go to war with them. Right? You’ll help me get my son back. You—”

“If it is within mission parameters.”

“He’s just a _baby_. If your soldiers have heart, they will do the right thing and help him.” The paladin’s features furrow into a scowl. Sole knows he’s stepping out of line, but he won’t stop, his bloodflood still screams to fight, his jaw is tight. “You have to help me. Please.”

The paladin sighs. “Our mission is to protect the Commonwealth and its people, and that includes eliminating the Institute,” he says. He recites those words like a litany he could corrupt at the wrong slip of his tongue. “It means that we will rescue your son if we have the means and the opportunity to do so.”

The good paladin is giving him nothing but it feels like a blessing. They will help him and he will hold Shaun close once more. “And you will help us as a Brother.”

Sole nods eagerly. “Yes. I will—I will.” He will sell his soul and morality and judgment to the Brotherhood if it means seeing his Shaun once more. He will do to the Institute what he did with Kellogg, take them apart and wreck them until his hands are soaked red. He’ll do it even if it kills him. He will slip into hell if that’s what’s expected of him.

The flight to the Prydwen happens to the sound of Paladin Danse’s speech. Sole holds onto the minigun like a lifeline; he’d fall otherwise. And when he sees the sea, he doesn’t think that would be such a terrible idea. It’s the first time he sees the sea in over two hundred years and it is the same, the lonely survivor of the wreck that is Boston and the world. The sea is terrible, immense. It has remained unchanged from _before_ —if they’d gotten through with their plan he’d be at the beach with Evie—their first time with Shaun, _fuck_ , and now it’s all gone except him and the sea and the ruins of his home. His throat ties knots around itself. It takes all of Sole’s restraint not to reach for his wedding ring, for the holotape. It takes all of Sole’s restraint not to sob right there and then.

The paladin wants him to admire the Prydwen, but Sole can’t do that when his body is waging war with itself.

*

As soon as he is allowed to touch down at the airport, he takes the chance. Sole walks towards the shore filled with skeletons of airplanes, a monument to another age, and he takes off his boots to step into the water. It’s cold, he cries out with the feeling of it. It’s the sharpest thing he’s felt in a long while. He picks up a shell and studies it with his hands. Even though one of the scribes gives him this look, he doesn’t move. He breathes in the salt that clings to the breeze that blows his hair all over his place. When that starts to bother him, he just tucks the longer strands into a bun and returns to watching.

The sea just laps at his calves with the same rhythm as before. It’s as constant as the swing of a pendulum and it lulls Sole just like that. He searches his pocket for the holotape, and after fumbling it for a moment, he inserts it into the Pip-Boy.

The feedback at the beginning doesn’t startle him anymore. Her voice soothes his ears.

*

It’s the end of the day. The battle is past, the mirelurks are ended, and they are not saved. They’ll never be. There will always be another fight to try to live through. There’s something about the Castle that feels wrong to Sole. He thinks it’s the Prydwen looming overhead, or the rotten-fish smell of the mirelurks that are littered all over the place. The large queen fallen in the courtyard makes for an impressive monument of carnage, piled on top of what used to be a monument in his time. He can’t bear to look at it.

Sole stands at the edge of the walls overlooking the pink-orange-purple waves instead. He’s feeling the weight of his rifle in his hands, grounding him. The minutemen are starting to organize themselves and clean up the place.

Sole is needed elsewhere—he has to help settlements, find parts for Liberty Prime. He will do it. His determination isn’t questioned. Not to the minutemen, at least.

Danse joins him, only after a while. Of course he does. In the middle of these strangers he can’t help but orbit Sole like a faithful moon. If he means to say something, probably about how Sole’s committing his effort and resources to something other than the Brotherhood, he decides against it. It’s for the best. He doesn’t question why Sole’s just decided to stare out at the ocean. He can’t comprehend the feeling of seeing what used to be a destination for school trips, the inspiration of writers, a place for independence, covered in crab guts. Instead, Danse taps his forearm with a bottle of Nuka-Cola and waits for him to sling his rifle over the shoulder. It isn’t ice cold, of course, but it still feels like nectar and ambrosia out here in this wasteland. Danse doesn’t say a thing, which is another thing to be thankful for. Danse gives him a second gift; it’s a seashell. Sole doesn’t dare break the silence laced with song from his Pip-Boy, either, but he smiles his gratitude.

To pass the time, he swirls the butt of the bottle in slow circles. He can feel the liquid sloshing inside. If Sole closes his eyes, he thinks he can pretend he’s got the sea in his hand. It’s a silly thought he discards as he presses the neck of the bottle to his lips and drinks.

*

It’s bad news, everything that happens from then on. It starts with the Institute and it ends with the Institute. While the reveal that Danse isn’t quite organic doesn’t change the direction of things, it reinforces what wrong Danse did before.

For one, bottles of wine or beer or whiskey pop up to greet Sole like an old friend if he leaves Danse at the bunker. Sole throws the bottles out. He replaces them with trinkets he finds here and there, shells he finds in empty beaches. (The only beach-goers of this age are carcasses and mirelurks.) Sometimes Cait helps him do it—she _gets it_ , she doesn’t make small talk filled with condolences and instead helps. He’s so thankful for that. He knows that what used to be two fingers of whiskey turns to four and then six and still Danse can’t sleep. And because of that Sole can’t feel guilty about taking the bottles away. He knows that sleepless exhaustion, and he knows that this isn’t the best way to cope with it. So, they lie together without sleeping, and what silence is left over from the radio, Sole fills with one-sided conversation.

(The stories are Sole’s childhood threading into adulthood, stories he’s heard. He tells Danse of the things he thinks in the spaces no one will discover. Danse answers here and there, a word to urge Sole to speak more. His fingers massage Sole’s scalp with slow, stilted circles.)

Sometimes, they fuck. _Make love_ , if Danse is insistent on using his preferred terminology. It makes Sole’s mouth and breath feel electric. Tonight’s not one of those nights, and Sole is perfectly content with this, just humming against the skin of Danse’s back, a leg and an arm wrapped around him. His fingers draw aimless patterns on Danse’s lower stomach, over wiry hair. Danse huffs, chest moving with it, and it almost sounds like the beginning of laughter. However, Danse grips Sole’s wrist and threads his fingers with his before Sole can tease him about it. Still, Sole can’t quite contain a snort.

“What?” Danse asks, indignant.

“Are you ticklish, my love?” Sole teases. It’s easy to use the endearment like this.

Danse’s response is immediate—“No.” It gets cut off when Sole disentangles their fingers and moves them against his skin. Danse visibly contains his laughter.

Sole allows himself to laugh and sits up to take a better look at Danse, who furrows his brow at him. Sole bends down to kiss it, and then he takes his free hand to pet Danse’s thick hair.

“Hush. How are you supposed to sleep like that?”

When Danse opens his mouth it is to protest. “Maybe you don’t realize that I don’t actually need to rest right now. You do.”

Sole huffs. “Nonsense.” He kisses Danse’s full lips. “Maybe you need a better lullaby?”

“Your voice is nice,” Danse says in earnest. Sole doesn’t know how to react save for maybe smiling and feeling all choked up.

As soon as he finds his voice, he asks, “Turn over.”

Of course, Danse follows his word. He does it at the same time as he gives Sole this expecting look that shows how he doesn’t know why he’s following Sole’s word. Once he’s on his back, Sole sits himself on Danse’s stomach in a way, as it turns out, must be coded sexually for Danse, because he immediately moves his hands to Sole’s thigh and hip.

“Really, now?” His voice is dry.

Sole laughs. “Hush,” he orders as he brings his hands up to cup around Danse’s ears.

“What are you doing?” Danse’s voice is somewhat louder, as if Sole’s hands were enough to mute the every little sound. He doesn’t struggle—his hand flies to Sole’s wrist but it doesn’t try to pry Sole’s hand. He’s so trusting, or so Sole hopes. Sole wants to kiss his very heart for that.

“Shh. Listen,” Sole murmurs. “Listen.”

He’s imagined doing this to Shaun in the very same way his wife used to do it to him. It feels right, trying it with Danse. Sole knows he should do this with a conch shell. He’s probably got one or two lying around somewhere, but the moment would be lost if he went to fetch for them. Still, he keeps his hands on Danse’s ears and watches as his face lights up in recognition and then slips into something more tender and fragile, looking up at him. “That’s—”

Sole nods. “The sea. Yeah. You like that?”

“Not quite the sea,” Danse starts, sighs. “Yeah. I like it. How does it work?”

“Later. Close your eyes.”

He does. Sole takes the chance tow bo down and kiss Danse’s hairline. Danse’s eyelashes flutter.

*

When all is said and done, he lays her body to rest.

He doesn’t want Shaun to stay at the Castle, but he doesn’t want him in Sanctuary before this is dealt with. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach Sanctuary after everything that’s happened. Sturges helps Sole build a cart from an old rowboat for transportation. Preston asks him if he needs any help, anyone to escort him. Danse helps him carry her thawing body down to the river. Her body is lined with the hubflowers he can find, but it is missing something. It isn’t the sea, but Sole knows she will eventually slip into the waves and that, at least, he can give her.

It’s a lonely, almost silent ceremony. Danse stands on the shoreline, watching over. Sole knows he would come to him, if he asked, but this is something he should do alone. He thinks her parents would be disappointed in how he’s done her funeral—he thinks so himself.

Sole says his goodbye standing in the water that’s up to his knees. His speech is broken, punctuated by the sobs that wrack him and his own insecurity. He tells her how he is sorry. He tells her of his failure as a husband, as a father. But he won’t give up. He tells her he loves her—it isn’t enough.

That’s how Sole ends up prying his wedding ring from his finger for the first time in more than two hundred years. It gets stuck on the second knuckle, and he has to fight with it for a moment, carefully, before it pops off. He places it in her hand and trades it for hers, two wedding rings with two forgotten names. It slips easier. She’s always had the finest fingers. It won’t fit his finger, so he links it into the chain that holds his holotags. They clink together in a reunion song.

He kisses her forehead goodbye, he sets fire to the boat, and lets her go. For now.

Danse is there to shore him up.

*

That night, he adds Danse’s old tags to the chain necklace. He probably shouldn’t, but he wants them close where he can remember them and reach for them if he needs to. They clink together with his holotags and Evie’s ring. It’s a beautiful cacophony. It sings their ownership over him.

*

It takes a while, but eventually Sole works up the courage to give his old dog tags to Danse. It happens in the morning, just as Danse is preparing to get into his armor.

“Why?” Danse asks, studying the tags in his hand. The Brotherhood’s tags are a legacy to them. They are nothing and everything alike. Still, they are one and the same with Danse’s old tags.

 _Because you make me a better man_ , Sole means to say. And isn’t that true. He doesn’t know where he’d be if he didn’t pick a project after another only to abandon them, only to fail—finding his son, saving his son, rebuilding Sanctuary, his alliance with the Brotherhood, the Railroad, Danse’s bunker, Danse himself. He doesn’t want to fail Danse. Not him, not Shaun. But those aren’t things Sole knows how to shape with his tongue and lips and voice, so he fishes the chain from his shirt, the cacophony of their tags and his wife’s wedding ring. He shows them to Danse, thumbing Danse’s tags.

“I probably shouldn’t, but I’ve been wearing them for a while now. Don’t ask me why.” Danse will. “But they make me feel good, safe. I thought that maybe you’d want to wear mine, too. They are different than the Brotherhood’s, but the meaning’s the same.” Danse nods. Sole adds, “I’d like it if you had something of mine.”

Danse looks at him with an intensity only he can. “They are perfect. I’ll keep them close. Thank you.” He means to put the cord around his neck, but his hands fumble with it. Sole is there to help him. He’s close to hyperventilating, but still manages to kiss Danse dizzy.

“I love you,” Sole swears. His hand is clasped tightly around both of their chains.

“Thank you,” says Danse.

*

Sole thinks he’s found a home when he sees the view from the top of Kingsport Lighthouse. The sea is there, bigger than everything he’s ever seen. It’s the same but it’s still overwhelming. And that is good enough for Sole.

It takes some effort making the lighthouse into a home. They spend a good amount of time disposing of bodies. Sole laughs—now there’s one thing he never thought could be a part of one’s housecleaning routine. Danse doesn’t understand, but he frowns and holds Sole’s hand when he tells him why. They dismantle everything in the house for scrap, to give it a new life.

After a few days it’s something close to livable, which is what matters the most. It’s still bare bones—what will be the bedroom has rugs for a bed, they eat on the kitchen floor at sundown. As usual, Sole’s Pip-Boy is tuned in to the radio.

It’s disgustingly domestic. It’s everything Sole has ever wanted. He needs to get Shaun and Codsworth and Dogmeat in here.

They end up fucking on the kitchen floor. It’s a sudden thing, the way Sole calls out to Danse, “Hey, can we—I kinda need you.”

Danse takes his hand and kisses his knuckles. His beard prickles Sole’s skin. “What do you need?”

Plates and cutlery are moved out of the way. The Nuka-Cola bottle gets knocked over and spills its contents onto the wood boards. Danse’s mouth and hands are there to greet him when Sole sits on his hips. “This,” Sole mumbles.

They kiss, their hands working to get their clothing just enough out of the way. Sole shimmies Danse’s pants and underclothes down the curve of his ass, touching his skin as it’s laid out bare. Sole thinks Danse’s thighs are the first of the seven wonders of this new world. Sole touches him, Danse tugs Sole’s jeans down, and they thrust into the circle of Sole’s hand, then Danse’s hand too as he wraps it around Sole’s hand and both their erections. Their movements are awkward; Sole’s wrist is twisted at an exaggerated angle that might make it snap at any moment, but it’s worth it. He ends up rucking Danse’s shirt up in slow increments, to the rhythm of his thrusts, constant as the waves ever present in this house.

Sole comes with a swearword shaped on his lips. Danse follows not long after with an embarrassing whine. Sole kisses Danse’s lips, bites them, and then licks them.

He seals the deed with a breathless little “I love you.” He’s bowing down to kiss Danse’s stomach soiled with their come. He laps it up, ignoring the taste.

When Sole looks up at Danse, his eyes are dark, cheeks red. “Disgusting,” he whispers. Still, he reaches for Sole’s hand to manhandle him into cuddling. It calms his fluttering heartbeat, much like the way Danse’s fingers press into his flesh does.

Sole presses his lips to Danse’s clavicle and listens to the quiet hum of his breath, of the waves. It feels like a homecoming.


End file.
